Joy Departed
by Broken-Vow
Summary: With all the warmth of her life gone, Christine tries desperately to get it back. Three-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**This idea came on a freezing, freezing, freezing cold night several years ago. I've finally decided to post it after polishing it up a bit. It really wasn't meant to be this long. It just…sort of…grew. I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to review!**

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><p><em>In visions of the dark night<br>__I have dreamed of joy departed  
><em>_But a waking dream of life and light  
><em>_Hath left me broken-hearted._

My days as a girl had been spent outside, roaming the country, frolicking under the hot sun and the leafy green trees. The days were full of warmth and laughter, and light would come from my Papa's smiling face and from my own inner peace and happiness. I remember those days with an aching longing, wishing that my Papa had never left me. Sometimes I imagine him appearing on a street, violin in hand, beckoning me to come and rejoin him on his countryside wanderings. I imagine hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek, then taking his hand and allowing him to lead me wherever the sun is warmest and brightest.

However, it is becoming difficult to do such things. It exhausts me to try to remember what the sun on my skin feels like. I can hear the echo of a warm breeze, but I cannot feel it against my face. Whatever warmth I have is now superficial. It warms me for the briefest of moments, but then I fall back into the biting chill that clings to my skin and clothes.

It is a most terrible feeling. After spending so many years in the sun, my being kept from it is making me melancholy and depressed. I feel ill and frail from the constant cold.

The dreadful winter above has crept into the bowels of the earth, into the underground where I now reside, and I constantly shiver against the snowstorms and frost that I cannot see, but I can feel it. It is the coldest winter I have ever known, yet I haven't seen a single snowflake.

I curl up in my dress with a large, heavy shawl wrapped around me and stare at fire in front of me, feeling my face flush from the fire but unable to feel completely warm. I want the overwhelming feeling of pure, unadulterated heat and light inside and out.

"Christine?"

Even that _voice _seems cold. I shiver a little and blow hot air onto my fingers.

A tall, lean man walks in front of me, blocking the directed heat from the fire. He wears black from head to toe, save his waistcoat, which is a dark gray and beautifully brocaded with black thread. His hair is a dark, brilliant black, and he wears a mask of black leather, which covers everything except his lips and chin.

But none of that catches my interest. I have seen him too many times to be fascinated by his clothing or frame. Only his eyes hold interest, and those moments are seldom—when intense emotion crosses them, and then I stare, intrigued.

"Christine," Erik repeats. His voice, however ethereal, seems eternally frosted over.

"Yes?"

His eyes linger on my face. I have the decency to blush and drop my gaze, as if he is not there if I cannot see him before me.

"Your supper is ready," he says at length. "It will be cold if you do not hurry."

I take his carefully-placed suggestion and hasten over to the table, wanting to consume the heat, to feel it slide into me. I don't care about flavor or texture. I only want to feel something warm in my stomach. Sometimes my utensil slips between my fingers, which are almost numb with cold. I glance at Erik's gloves with some jealousy. He wears them constantly, and even if they are only to hide his bony, thin hands, they at least keep his fingers warm. He is also wearing a waistcoat and jacket, while I am in a dress with flimsy sleeves and a collar that exposes flesh—not too much, but enough that I wish that I had put on some sort of muffler or worn a high-necked dress.

I pick up my glass, feeling the water cling to the sides and then to my fingers, and I glance at him while I drink. He is eating calmly, his eyes focused on his plate. There is an air of formality and stiffness whenever he sits down at the table to eat, and I suspect that he is still a little uncomfortable eating in front of me, no matter what had or would transpire between us. It is also obvious that it is a little awkward for him to manage around his mask, and he never eats much because of this.

"Is it…?" I hear myself suddenly stutter out. I blush once again—I had not intended to speak at all.

Slowly, he sets his utensils down and looks up at me expectantly.

"I mean, outside," I say, putting my hands on my lap. "Is it bad?"

When he hears the question and realizes it is nothing serious, he returns his attention to his plate. "Particularly so," he says. "This past week has been nothing but storms."

I am silent, bowing my head back to my plate, but I sense his gaze returning to my face.

"Why do you ask?" he says. "I will not agree if you ask to go out. It is terrible weather, and I don't want you catching a chill."

Quickly, I resist retorting that I am more likely to catch a chill from living underneath the Opera House. I instead drink more ice cold water and announce that I am finished. Instantly, he is up and clearing my plate. I hastily return to the settee in front of the fire and pull my shawl around my shoulders, rubbing my arms, trying not to let my teeth chatter.

I have not been outside in so many weeks. In the beginning, I was able to beg and whine and pester him so much that he would take me out at dusk, though now my excursions are short walks around the dreadful lake…yet even those are rare. I am to be trapped in this horrid house until I wither away and perish.

Sometime later, he enters, picks up a book, and sits down in his large, wing-backed chair. He reads quietly for a very, very long time. I fidget, trying not to let any part of my flesh be exposed to the frigid air. I tuck my feet up underneath me and breathe on my fingers once more.

As soon as the clock chimes nine, I announce my plans to retire, and I go to my bedroom, shaking insanely as I pull off my dress and shoes. I consider for a moment keeping on all of my undergarments and sleeping in every single nightgown I own, but in the end I dress in my usual sleeping attire and slip between the freezing sheets, my body literally shaking. I am sure that I will catch pneumonia and die. Perhaps that will not be too terrible. As fast as I can I bring my hands out from underneath the sheets and breathe on them once more.

The lamplight glints off the ring. I look at it for a moment, plain and shining dully under the light. It looks unassuming, and it looks as if it belongs on my left hand. It has been on there for many, many months now, and I have given up trying to take it off. There is nothing to be done for it. The ring is to remain on my finger.

I stow my hands under the blankets quickly and bring them to my chest, curling into a tight ball to conserve any warmth that I had. The sheets and blankets around me warm up just a little from my body, but I dare not move in case I touch a cold part of the bed. After a few more minutes of shaking, I feel my body slowly calm itself, enough for me to close my eyes and drift asleep.

Many hours later, I wake, though I am still and silent. As I blink the fogginess of sleep from my brain, I feel solid pressure on my back, and there is soft breathing in my ear. A long arm has secured itself around my waist, and a hand is loosely wrapped around my hip. I feel him on every inch of me, feel his unbearably-thin frame molding itself against mine, and I feel the chill that radiates from him. His very skin is cold—literally. He cannot explain it or make it go away. I have borne it with as much patience as I can, but underneath the sheets, the cold is terrible. I tremble a little against him. He is much too cold to share a bed with.

A few moments later, I feel him shift slightly, and his breathing changes slightly.

"What is it?" His voice is low, a murmur, and his breath is hot against my ear.

I want to tell him—tell him that I cannot sleep because his skin is painful against mine. But I merely say softly, "It's nothing. I had a bad dream. I'm fine now."

He moans a low sigh and pulls me closer before settling himself and drifting back off to sleep. It no longer makes me uncomfortable that he sleeps next to me. His intimately-close physical presence is not discomforting. I do not even care about his face anymore—I cannot seem to build up enough emotion _to _care about it. It would have bothered me if he woke up and pulled off my nightgown, but only because it is so cold.

There have been only two nights of that—two nights in which our marital duties were explored. It had embarrassed me, and, surprisingly, he had felt similar. It had been…I had agreed to it. I had encouraged him! I had thought—like a foolish, stupid girl—that doing…_that_ would change him. One act—one thing that was apparently vital to marriage—one thing that I had always been too afraid to even think of—, and he would have everything he wanted. He would be a new man, a better man, the husband I thought I deserved.

It shames me to remember it. There had been no beauty in it. There had been no tender touches or kisses—no murmured words of devotion and love, such as I had always been led to believe.

He had sobbed over all of the blood on the sheets, and I had attempted to explain it to him.

"I have heard that that is…natural…for the first time," I whimpered, clutching at any unsoiled covering I could find. I was trying very hard to control _my _tears. I felt dishonored, and I ached badly.

He had nodded quickly, almost thoughtlessly, and continued to stare at the red spots. It began to make me feel most uncomfortable. He said nothing else, merely left the room, and I thought on his behavior for several long moments until the realization struck me—he had not believed in my maidenhood, but the blood had proven him wrong. It was an insult beyond compare, and I sobbed and seethed for the remainder of the night. However, like the child I am, I have never confronted him about it.

After the first terrible experience, he tried once more some weeks later, apparently under several incorrect impressions. Now that my maidenhood had been claimed by _him _and not by the Vicomte, he attempted to be gentle and…loving. He whispered horrible things to me with his angel's voice in the pitch-black darkness—that I was a beautiful, faithful wife; that he was very pleased with me; that I was a good girl to allow him to touch me; that he had long been denied physical affection and that I was the most wonderful wife to show him love. Again, I kept my eyes closed, horrified when I recognized that he pressed a trembling kiss to my cheek.

However, the second attempt quickly became as disastrous as the first, and he pulled away with a shuddering sob. He had cowered and covered his masked face with his hands, moaning terrible things. He made me dress, and he then left the room. He has not tried since.

But the thought of the wedding ring on my finger has seemingly driven his feelings into some sort of defiance. _Some _change must be made now that we are married! We cannot go on as before. If we did, then there would be no point at all in my wearing his ring. So he has made a decision. Normal men sleep in the same bed as their wives. If he won't have me intimately, then he will at least have the normalcy of sleeping beside me. Like the weak girl I am, I cannot drag up the effort to object. I quietly accept his presence every night, and even when his hands became a bit more daring, I still said nothing. He now simply wraps his arms around me and falls asleep.

When I wake a second time, he is gone, and I feel my inner clock tell me that it is time to arise. The chill of his skin is still on me, and I fully intend to wash it off in an extremely long, extremely hot bath, which I set up in my nightgown, shivering a little. I watch the large tub fill up, grateful that Erik has somehow managed to erect plumbing in his house. I have never had such a luxury before. I have always been much too poor to afford a house with fancy pipes and hot water at my demand.

The steam is filling up the washroom, and I make sure that the tap for the hot water is completely turned. With the temperature of the rest of the house being as it is, I am sure that the water will cool quickly, and I want to soak up as much of the heat as I can.

There is a sudden gust of cold air, and I squeak a little before turning. Erik is in the room, watching me. I suddenly feel very self-conscious in my nightgown, my little bare feet planted on the floor, staring at him and feeling my curly hair react to the steam in the room.

"You bathed yesterday," he says flatly.

I nod. "I know." Yesterday's bath had warmed me considerably for a few precious hours.

"You will exhaust the heater that warms the water. It will break, and I will have to fix it." He takes a step closer and looks at the tub. "Besides, you are going to scald yourself in that."

I am not going to argue with him. The only thing I want is a hot bath. "I'm sorry," I say humbly. "I didn't realize that it is an inconvenience. I will use this water wisely, and I promise this will not happen again."

He looks at me for a moment, as if trying to detect some kind of lie, but he eventually says, "Very well. Allow the water time to cool before you get in."

I nod fervently, and he leaves the room, shutting the door and trapping in the steam and heat. Without wasting another moment, I pull off my nightgown, toss it aside, and step into the bath water. It feels as if my skin is burning. The sudden heat to my cold skin is painful, but I slip into the water all the way, sinking into the tub so the water is just above my shoulders. My skin flushes a deep pink, and I revel in the hot water, soaking it in.

When the steam has subsided slightly and I am starting to feel slightly cold whenever wet skin meets the air, I know I have to get out to properly savor the warmth. Reluctantly, I climb out, dry myself, and dress. Then I face the terrible task of leaving my warm little cocoon in the washroom and venturing into the frigid air of the rest of the house. Erik once explained cocoons to me—an ugly caterpillar encases itself and then emerges to be a beautiful butterfly. I did not wish to speak about it after I heard that part.

He is playing when I emerge, and he does not acknowledge me as I eat the presented meal. As I do, I watch him, caught up in terrible thoughts. Is he as unhappy as I am? Does he wish for something more? How do I not please him? Why is he still so terribly angry? I have given him everything. _Everything_. I have done every single thing he has asked of me. And still we sit in silence, uncomfortable, both unwilling to admit that there is something dreadfully wrong.

After I finish, he beckons me over to the organ, and I begin a voice lesson. There is no more joy in music now. It is only something to pass the time, something to lose myself in for a few precious hours of the day. However, my lesson only lasts a few minutes before he stops, frowning up at me.

"You are not focused," he says. "What troubles you?"

"N-nothing," I say. My entire jaw is trembling from the cold. It hurts, and it makes my whole mouth tense. I cannot open it wide enough to let the sound out.

"Your posture is terrible," he comments further, eyeing me, displeased. I am hunched over just a little, trying to conserve body heat. He stands and circles me, still frowning deeply. "Are you ill?"

I shake my head quickly. "I'm fine."

"Then straighten up," he says coolly. "I taught you posture years ago. It should be engrained in you."

Yes, it _is _engrained in me, but I am shivering and cannot help but try to warm myself. He returns to the organ, beginning the music again. However, I do not manage to get an entire line in before he stops, lifting his hands from the keys in a defeated manner. Sighing haggardly, he runs his hands through his black hair before looking at me once again.

"Why are you not in good voice today? These behaviors you are exhibiting will have deleterious influences on your voice."

"I…" I cannot form a reply to something I do not understand, and I look at him in confusion.

"Deleterious means harmful or injurious," he says, and I avoid his gaze and blush at my own stupidity. "Now answer my question."

"I—I simply do not feel like singing today," I say. When I look up to see his eyes, I add quickly, "I'm sorry."

There is an expression in his gaze that makes me even more ashamed and afraid, and I revert to staring at his shoes—something that has rather become a habit. Erik has recognized this gesture as my pathetic way of pleading with him to not be angry at me.

"Very well," he says softly, coldly. "What does my wife wish to do with her time since she refuses to sing correctly?"

I fidget childishly with the tassels of my shawl. It is very beautiful. Erik presented it to me the day before we married. He was constantly besieging me with gifts, as if all of the pretty trinkets would make up for a forced marriage and a life stolen from me. After the second and final night of intimacy, the gifts stopped.

"Perhaps…" I glance at him quickly and then continue, my voice as quiet as I can make it. "Perhaps an opera…"

"Do not mumble so, Christine. It is unbecoming in a woman."

I feel nerves build as I clarify, "Perhaps an opera…sometime…"

"An opera? Why should I wish to see an opera? I have no reason anymore. _You_ are not in them. You are here, with me, though you refuse to sing…No. No operas. That drivel beats into my head and creates the most insufferable of migraines. Perhaps if the Opera House was blessed with talent…But it is not." He tidies up the organ and then stands. "I suppose I will venture out for supplies, since you will not sing today. I will not be long. Behave while I am out."

He leaves, and I do not have the courage to ask him to light a fire before he departs. I sit in front of the empty hearth, tempted to try it myself, though I know that with my luck, I would burn down his house. He would be most upset if that happened.

I pull out some bread and cold cheese for my supper, and I manage to brew tea. I have not made tea for him since we married. Once…when he had first brought me down here for those awful two weeks, I had done so. He had choked on the tea I presented and had then told me that he despised all kinds of tea save for a Russian flavor with lemon. I do not know how to make it. I have never asked him to show me.

I do not want to greet him when he returns, and so I retire to bed early after cleaning up my supper. I manage to warm a little cocoon of the bedclothes, and for a glorious moment, my shivering subsides.

Sometime later, I hear him enter. There are the usual sounds of him putting away the supplies and groceries he picked up, and I close my eyes tightly, willing myself to fall asleep before he enters. It is very early. Perhaps he will read before coming to bed.

However, several minutes later, the door opens and closes. I can never pretend to be asleep with him. He always knows. And so I watch him as he approaches.

"Are you well, my wife?" he says, pressing a freezing hand to my forehead. I nod instantly, hoping he will withdraw his touch.

"I am tired," I murmur.

"Of course." He slides in behind me, reaching for me as he always does. He is cold, and he has been outside. My warm cocoon is quickly broken, and my body violently protests the temperature. His frame shapes itself to mine, and as the night continues, I close my eyes and wish that I was in heaven with Papa.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ah! what is not a dream by day  
>To him whose eyes are cast<br>On things around him with a ray  
>Turned back upon the past?<em>

_That holy dream—that holy dream,_  
><em>While all the world were chiding,<em>  
><em>Hath cheered me as a lovely beam<em>  
><em>A lonely spirit guiding.<em>

After situating himself behind me, Erik seems ready to sleep. I am so very tired, and I loathe the thought of lying here, too cold to sleep, while he sleeps against me. Perhaps I can crawl out of the bed and curl up on the floor for a few hours. It would certainly be warmer.

For a moment, he pets my hair, his fingertips gliding over my forehead and cheeks. It takes a supreme amount of effort not to noticeably shiver.

But his cold hand runs over my throat, and I cannot help but gasp just a little, instinctively shying away. His fingers stop, and I feel him behind me, obviously stunned. I have not pulled away from any of his small touches in bed, and though they are infrequent, I have never recoiled so blatantly.

_I must tell him_. My eyes are aching with tiredness, and my body is literally throbbing with the pain of exhaustion.

After another moment, he puts his hand on my arm, as if testing what will happen. Feeling wretched, I push it off. I close my eyes tightly and say, trying desperately to keep courage, "It…it is freezing in this house."

"I will warm it for you," he replies instantly.

"No—it—right now…I'm so cold. I haven't been sleeping because it's too cold." I want him to understand without the words coming from my mouth.

"Shall I fetch you more blankets?" His tone is stretched, too light, and I know he understands what I am saying, but he does not want to admit it.

"No, that will not help," I whisper. There is a long, awful silence.

"What would you like me to do?" he then says. He is going to make me say it to hurt me.

Pressing my hand over my eyes, I whisper, "Please don't make me say it."

There is a jerk next to me, and I feel him sit up. He seizes my shoulder and forcefully pulls me onto my back. I cry out as he takes my face in one of his large hands, his fingers digging into my cheeks.

"You will look at me when you tell me," he hisses dangerously, his eyes flashing above me. I am frightened and upset, and I wail unhappily.

"Shut up," he snarls, shaking me. "I want you to stop crying and tell me what it is you intend to say."

I choke on a sob, tears leaking out of my eyes. His hand makes it difficult to speak, but I cry jerkily, "Please—please don't—sleep—next to me—anymore. Please…"

"_Why?_" He knows the reason. His fingers press harder, and I whine in pain.

"Your skin!" I sob. "It's too—cold. Please—I'm sorry! I'm sorry—!"

He shoves me away and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. I curl into a ball and sob, but I do not feel any warmer at his absence. I feel ashamed and unhappy, though I do not know why. Erik is not beside me. I have the opportunity to sleep peacefully and be warm. It is only right that Erik should consider my comfort. If he wishes to be the good husband he so passionately promised to be, he must know that sacrifices are necessary. And once the winter passes, I shall not stop him from returning to the bedroom. The cold is simply too unbearable, and Erik's frigid skin will surely help along any illnesses I may contract from the icy months.

Slowly, my crying subsides, and I sniff and wipe my tears away. I will apologize tomorrow and calmly explain what it is that is bothering me. I did not do a very good job tonight. I had simply blathered out some sobbing words, and he had not understood.

I wonder if he will mind if I rinse my face off with hot water. It is sticky and sore, and my cheeks are throbbing dully. I glance at the door that leads to my washroom before deciding that I would rather not arouse his anger for a second time that night. Instead I give a shuddering little sob and rub my cheeks with my fingertips, looking forward to rest.

To my alarm, the door opens again. I roll over and see Erik in the room, staring at me with a terrible look in his eyes.

Fear grabs me quickly, for I have seen that expression, and it is always followed by something horrifying. I grasp the sheets and watch him with wide eyes. He steps into the room, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

"Please," I say, my voice a trembling whisper. "I'm—What are you doing?" He comes closer and then kneels down on the bed. His arms reach out, and I automatically recoil. "No, don't touch me!" I say hysterically, writhing to get away. He seizes my waist and drags me across the bed toward him. I squeal as he picks me up from the bed, and he drapes me over his shoulder. It is a long, long way to the ground, and I am afraid he will drop me.

"Let go of me!" I shriek. "Stop—put me down! _Stop!_"

I cannot see where he is going, as my face is buried in his back, but he is passing through the front room, and I know that he is at the hidden door, which leads out of the house and onto the little dock of the lake. A low grinding sound reaches my ears, signaling that he has activated the door and it is open. He steps through it.

The freezing air pierces my skin, and the foul stench of the lake fills my nose. I cannot see well, and I grasp the back of his shirt and squirm, terrified.

"Please, put me down!" I cry frantically. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please sleep beside me again! I'm begging you, _please!_"

His shoes clunk dully as he walks out onto the dock, and I kick my legs against him and pound my fists into his back, screeching like a banshee.

In one long, smooth motion, I am rolled off his shoulder, and he drops me right into the lake.

A mouthful of ice-cold water fills my mouth, stopping my screaming, and I sink momentarily before thrashing my way to the surface, gasping and sobbing. I am not a good swimmer. My arms and legs feel dead and useless as I try to keep above the surface. The water is black, murky, and disgusting, and it sloshes in and out of my open mouth. My hands reach out, trying to find the legs of the dock, but I only feel more water. I struggle to try to swim to the shore—yet I cannot see it, and I reach around blindly, coughing and choking on the water. My nightgown is dragging around my legs, my hair is plastered over my face, and I am colder than I have ever imagined I could be.

Is this how Erik has always intended to kill me? Is he watching me, content, as I thrash about wildly, condemning myself to a watery grave? I can only hope that heaven will be warm—if I am admitted, that is…I have so many sins, and they rush past my eyes as I gag on the water.

He says that the siren lives in this lake. Am I prey for it? Is he sating its hunger? Shall I be dragged to the depths? The horrifying thoughts make me panic even more, and I waste energy by shrieking and heaving and flailing.

Just as I begin to sincerely believe that he is going to let me drown, I feel his strong hands come under my arms, and he pulls me out. I cling to him, desperately trying not to fall back into that terrible lake. He drags me to the bank and kneels. I sit in front of him, my hair streaming down my back, drenched in water, and little rivulets are running down my skin. I shiver insanely.

His bare hands press against my cheek and arms.

"Am I warm?" he demands. "Do I feel warm now?"

I nod frantically, doing anything to appease him, my teeth chattering. I am too cold to sense anything behind his words. He leans over and wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him, and I cough out water onto his shoulder.

"P-please," I say. My mouth hurts, as does the rest of my body. "I'm s-so cold…Please…"

"Embrace me," he says. "I will warm you."

"Take me inside," I beg.

There is a palpable silence. He presses his palms to my cheeks, and I shudder.

"This should be enough!" he cries desperately. "Why isn't it enough for you?"

I cannot stay in the frigid lake air any longer. Pitifully, I crawl over to the wall and run my hands over the stone, searching for the invisible button that will open the door for me. If I can curl up on the Persian rugs, then I think that perhaps I can become a little warmer.

An icy hand takes my arm, and I cry out in pain. It hurts when he touches my skin.

"Why isn't this working?" he screams. I cannot see him, but I can imagine him clenching in anger. He is infuriated, and I must get away from his temper and away from the cold.

"Help me," I say. I sneeze. "Please! I w-will be sick if I'm out here l-longer!" I feel my wet hair. It is stiff under my fingers. "I am going to d-die!" I wail dramatically.

Suddenly, I am wrenched to my feet, and the door pivots open. I sob with relief when he takes me through and into the blessedly-warm front room. He does not relinquish his hold, however. He has me about the waist, and he drags me through the front room, into my bedroom, and then into my washroom. Quickly, he reaches out and turns on the water to fill up the tub. Steam hisses into the room, and I breathe with some relief. The nightgown is hugging me tightly, and I wrap my arms around myself, embarrassed. Erik, however, is apparently not remotely interested. He turns the levers farther, and water gushes out, sloshing everywhere.

"I think it is quite f-full," I say faintly.

He ignores me, turning the valves even farther. When they are the farthest they can go, he screams at them and shakes them, enraged. The handles break, and the water will not stop coming. The tub is full, and the water is pouring out of the sides. He turns around, grabs me, and shoves me into it. I shriek. The water is boiling hot against my frigid skin, and it burns—burns my skin, and I am screaming in pain. I come up, but he pushes me underneath the water. Water floods out over the side of the tub, covering the washroom, soaking the little rugs on the floor. I emerge, gasping. His hand is at my shoulder, and he shoves me down yet again before I can draw a proper breath. I inhale more water, and I grip the sides of the tub, trying desperately to pull myself up to get air, but he is so much stronger than I am.

I am going to drown in this bathtub…He was only playing with me in the lake. This is his true intention…To drown me like some sickly animal, to do away with me once and for all.

After I have been forcedly immersed two more times, I sit up in the tub to find that he is not above me. I splutter on the hot water and push my sopping curls out of my eyes. When I look around, I see that he is on the ground, doubled over as if sick, his hands over his face. He is sobbing. I have not seen him cry since our wedding night. I stare for a few moments, unsure if he will snap and come back to drown me. But when his crying continues, when his weeping fills up the room and his shoulders shake with the intensity of his sobs, I somehow find the courage to climb out of the tub and approach him.

This man…this man who has ruined my life, taken everything from me…this pitiful creature on the floor, to whom I've given everything…After all that has passed between us, somehow I cannot hate him. I cannot hate my Angel of Music. I cannot hate the teacher who helped me achieve my most fervent and wildest of dreams. I cannot—and I will not—hate him. Shaking, I kneel beside him. He is damp and cold from the lake water.

"Erik?" I whisper. "Maestro?"

He flinches when I carefully, cautiously put my hand on his shuddering shoulder. We sit there for many, many minutes, as his crying slowly ceases. Even after he is quiet, he does not move. The water is still flowing from the faucet, and it is sloshing over the sides of the tub, pooling around us. I am afraid to move. I do not want something terrible to happen again, and so I am silent and allow him to move first.

When he does, he sits up and then stands. He does not look at me. Slowly, he takes a towel that is sitting on the little dresser in the washroom, and he kneels back beside me. I try to catch his gaze, but he ignores it and drapes the towel around my frame, pulling tightly, pinning my arms down. He then takes another towel and puts it over my head. I cannot see because of the towel covering my face, but I feel his hands begin to move. He rubs my sodden hair with the towel, rapidly, furiously, to the point it's pulling my curls and hurting me. But I say nothing and silently allow him to finish his task. He tugs the towel away and stands.

"Go change," he says, his voice emotionless. He is staring at the wall. "I will clean this up."

Still clutching the towel he put around me, I stand and hurry into my adjoining bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I breathe deeply, trying not to think too much. I peel off my wet clothes, tossing them into a corner, and dry my damp skin as best I can. After finding some clean, dry nightclothes, I pull those on and sit on the bed, waiting for him to emerge. The sound of gushing water still comes from the other side of the door. Almost absentmindedly, I pull some blankets around my shoulders, watching the light that is escaping from underneath the door. I have been mind-numbingly cold and excruciatingly hot all in the space of twenty minutes, and my body is exhausted. I want to slip under the sheets and drift away into a blank sleep—a sleep from which I will never wake.

I stand and walk to my vanity, the blankets dragging behind me like some sort of silly cape, and I sit on the stool, staring into the mirror. The face that stares back at me is one I hardly recognized. Once, I saw a youthful girl of twenty years. Now, I see a pitiful shell of twenty. Twenty! My life is not even half over, yet I look like an old woman. My skin is sickly and pale, my eyes hollowed, my hair limp. I feel disgusted looking at myself, and I put my face in my thin, dry hands. How fitting that a bride to Erik should come so close to resembling him without actually being dead!

We are both too afraid to admit that there is something so terribly wrong between us. Erik will not, for he wants to believe that since he married me, all of his problems have disappeared. I will not, for I do not want to admit to myself that it is my fault. He envisioned marrying me when I was happy and alive, when I would sing for him and laugh with him and talk. But I have withdrawn myself. I am a ghost in the house. I do what he commands and make no comment.

In the corners of my selfish mind, I know I am doing this purely out of spite. There is an evil part of me that wants to punish him for what he has done to my life. I want him to feel terrible about himself, and the only way I know how to accomplish this is to hurt him in the most obvious, horrible place: our sham marriage.

I have never been so bitter. I was a carefree, happy child. My father had raised me to be kind and soft. Where had I turned so dramatically? What had gone wrong? Shouldn't I be trying my very best to make this terrible situation as bearable as it could be? That's what my Papa would have told me. He would have kissed my cheek and told me the provincial proverb of the silver lining. He would tell me that God always provided the silver for us to see.

I look up into the mirror for a moment before hurriedly pulling out the little drawers. My hands shake slightly as I search, praying that it will still be there, that Erik has not found it and taken it. I do not know why he would feel the need, but he has done so many things that are somehow completely rational to him yet are ridiculous to me.

It is still there. I pull out the small, simple gold cross on the fine chain. It was my birthday present from my Papa when I turned ten—the birthday before he died. Shaking a little, I clasp it around my neck. It rests plaintively against my skin, chilly for a moment but then warm. I touch it lightly. It complements the gold on my left hand, and I look at them both. The two most influential and important men in my life—Erik and my father…

When Papa and I were having trouble with money or a place to stay, he would simply take out his violin and invite me to sing. Inevitably, someone would offer us a bed for a few nights or give us enough money for food. He would then smile at me. I can still remember his voice. _If you do good and serve others, my sweet angel, then good will come back to you. It is inevitable. God rewards all good deeds, and He will bless you with happiness and comfort._

I do not know if I can do it, Papa. I look at myself in the mirror, staring into my wide, conflicted blue eyes. Will God really reward me if I put aside my selfish nature? Will I truly be happy?

I think of Erik. He is more selfish than anyone I have ever known. He is not happy. And when I think of the happiest times in my life, I realize that many of them took place during lessons with my Angel. He would praise me for my hard work, telling me that I had pleased him greatly, and I would glow with pride and joy.

I am _tired_. I am tired of being miserable. I am exhausted from the energy I spend making sure that I do not enjoy one moment of my underground existence. I do not want to wither away down here. I have so many years left to live, and I cannot bear the thought that they will all be spent in misery! Who required that I had to be wretched in this underground house? Who told me that I had to spend my days being hateful? There is no one left to tell me what to feel. I have lost my dear Raoul, and I take solace in the promise that he is alive and safe. But he will not be coming back for me. I have accepted this. And so, the only one who is mandating that I be spiteful is myself.

There is nothing else to give to attempt to placate Erik. I know what he wants, what he has always wanted, but I have been too afraid and too bitter to offer it. I press my thin hands over my face, and, for the first time since I married, I pray.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for all the kind reviews you've left for this story. I hope you enjoy this final chapter,**** and please review!**

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><p><em>What though that light, thro' storm and night,<br>__So trembled from afar—  
><em>_What could there be more purely bright  
><em>_In Truth's day-star?  
><em>—_Edgar Allen Poe, _The Dream

When I pause to listen, I hear that the water from the broken pipe has stopped, but Erik still does not come out. He is, presumably, repairing the spout and cleaning up the water damage. I cannot fathom the depths of his genius. He is a complete virtuoso in countless aspects, and yet he is condemned to live out his life underneath an opera house—with a miserable, sickly little girl for a wife. Erik deserves monuments and awards. He should have married a beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, elegant woman. He should be renowned for everything he does, and yet he is repairing a broken pipe in his hateful wife's washroom instead. His face…his unfortunate, horrible face…

As I think of Erik, a complete, inexplicable rush of care overwhelms me. It is the feeling that calmed me during my first two-week stay with him, the feeling that told me that I could not hate him. The feeling has always been there, but it has been buried deeply, hidden away, and yet now it is back.

This poor, broken creature, who has never known love, never been taught right or wrong, never been touched out of affection, is trying to give me whatever tatters of his heart he can in the only ways he knows how. He does not know how to treat a woman, much less a wife, and I am cruelly making his unintentional shortcomings his own faults and flaws.

I touch the crucifix around my neck once again, and I know what to do.

Glancing at myself once more, pleased with the renewed look of vigor and purpose in my eyes, I rise from the vanity stool and walk into the front room, my blankets trailing behind me still. I am pleased to see that Erik must have lit a fire before attempting to retire. It has burned low, almost to embers, and I move the guard quickly and place more logs onto the small little flames, making sure that they catch fire. There is a strip of water left from when I was dragged in, and I take a dry cloth from the kitchen and mop it up as best I am able.

I work quickly, anxious to be finished before he is out of my washroom. And as I work, I realize that I am smiling. It is a small smile, true, but a real smile!—a smile that has not touched my lips in what feels like years. It is wonderful, and I allow my lips to stretch a little more as I hurry back and forth from my room, my arms full. I remind myself to pray later in gratitude for what has been revealed to me. I am so busy with motion and excitement that I do not notice the chilly air of the house or the darkness lingering in the corners.

After everything in the front room is set and I have the necessities from his room, I go back to my room and examine myself in the mirror once again. I apply soothing lotion to my dry hands and brush my tangled hair, fixing it as best I can. With some dismay, I realize that I have not taken care of myself very well, and I feel ashamed of my terrible state. But when I remember that I have many, many weeks to remedy this, my spirits lift once again.

When I can think of nothing else to do, I wait outside the washroom door, practically dancing with my nerves, listening to the silence from within. I do not know how he will react, but I wish to show him that I am ready to change, to move on, and…to forgive and forget. I _must _forgive him. He will know. He will see the lie if I attempt it. I can only hope that he will feel the same.

_Finally_, the handle turns, and I feel a swoop in my stomach that sometimes came just before I walked onstage. He looks supremely surprised to find me right outside the door, shifting my weight in my dressing gown and slippers.

"It is fixed," he says, his voice smooth though slightly suspicious.

"Thank you," I say.

There is a moment of silence. I am not sure how to proceed. He does not wish to linger in it, for he says hollowly, "I shall leave you for the evening, then. I am sorry my presence is so disgusting."

"No!" I say, darting in front of him. "Erik, I…" I swallow a little in nervous excitement and say shakily, "I have a surprise for you."

Amazement flashes over his glowing eyes but is quickly beaten back.

"I do not like surprises," he says.

"You will like this one," I promise. "Please, let me show you!"

He stares at me, blank disbelief evident. "Are you ill?" he asks abruptly. "Did you hit your head in the lake? Did you drink too much of the water? Tell me what the problem is."

I force an anxious smile. "The problem is that you are not letting me show you."

He sighs exasperatedly and rubs the back of his head. "Christine, I am very tired. I would prefer to go straight to my room. Perhaps tomorrow…"

"No, it must be tonight!" I insist. "It will only take a minute, and then I promise you may go to sleep."

"Fine," he snaps irritably. "Allow me to change out of my wet clothing, and then you may show me."

I seize a pile of dry clothing from the top of my vanity and hold them out to him. "I brought fresh clothes for you," I say, blushing just a little. "The surprise is in the front room."

To my relief, he does not mention anything about me entering his room uninvited. He merely snatches the clothes out of my hand, and I leave the room for a moment so he can change in privacy. I chew my lip and make some last-minute adjustments to the surprise before hurrying back to the door.

What if he does not like it? What if he becomes so terribly angry once again? It is not fancy or elegant…it is the best I could do, a meager offering that seems pitiful compared to being a true, loving wife. If he becomes upset by this, I will not know what to do. I will simply break down into tears, I am sure, for they are my well-trod path of turbulent emotions when I am dealing with Erik.

The handle turns, and the door opens, revealing Erik.

"You brought me my sleeping clothes," he says, annoyed.

"Yes," I say, unable to hide the anxious tremor in my voice. He glances at me and then brushes past before stopping suddenly when he sees the surprise.

There is a moment of palpable silence, and I come to stand next to him, looking to gauge his reaction. His eyes are narrowed, his hands clenched.

"What is this?" he says.

I step closer to the fireplace. "Our bed," I say uncertainly.

Every blanket I could find has been arranged neatly on the floor in front of the fireplace. I have pushed the front table away, with difficulty, and into a corner, and the fireplace is burning merrily with the logs I placed in it. The pillows from my own bed are positioned at the top. I could never dream of shifting the large, bulky mattress into the front room. It is still in its frame, bare.

"You do not mind sleeping on the floor, do you?" I ask, somewhat fretfully. "The rug makes it very comfortable, but if it bothers you too much, then…I understand."

He is staring at it, as if unable to believe. He then turns to look at me.

"You are mocking me," he says slowly, painfully.

"No!" I say. I rush to him and look, but do not touch. He gazes down at me, his glowing eyes full of hurt. "No. I…I must apologize for my behavior earlier this evening. I was…inconsiderate and childish. I shouldn't have said the things I did."

"You are apologizing for speaking the truth?" he breathes. "You are apologizing to _me _after I threw you into a filthy lake and practically drowned you in your own bathtub?"

I swallow and nod. He continues to stare, now angered and bewildered.

"I want you to be angry with me," he suddenly says. His eyes are burning. "I want you to hate me and never forgive me. I do not want your apologies, and I do not want _that_." He points to the bed of blankets.

When I quiver under his gaze, I remember my conviction and realize that I mustn't lose this battle. If I do, I do not know if I will have the courage to try again, and so I say pleadingly,

"I know that that is not true. Please. Let me forgive you. Know that I am not angry and sleep beside me."

"I will keep you awake, as you have already said." His voice is short and impatient. "I am cold—too cold."

"Which is why the bed is by the fireplace," I say. I take a few steps toward it, hoping he will follow. He does not. I feel desperation in me. I am still afraid, still unsure, but this attempt at _love _and understanding is the only way I have not taken. If this pathway does not lead to happiness, then I know that nothing will. "Please, _ange_," I bid softly. "You do not have to forgive me, but at least let me sleep beside you."

I can see the effect of calling him 'angel.' I have not called him angel in so many months. He takes a few jerky steps toward the bed. I slip off my dressing gown and lie down, surprised at the warmth that lingers in the blankets. Slowly, Erik shrugs off his dark robe as well, looking odd in his sleepwear. He is always dressed so immaculately, and I have never seen him in sleeping clothes. Stiffly, he lays beside me, rigid, staring at the ceiling. He will not touch me. I roll over to face him and make myself smile.

"Thank you," I say softly.

He turns his head away, his mask dully reflecting light. It is still chilly, so I nestle between the many layers of sheets and blankets, curling for warmth. I gaze up at him, so silent and still, and I venture to say:

"What happened…I…I am sorry. I should not have denied you your right to—"

"Be silent," he interrupts coldly. "Do not say things you do not understand."

I swallow harshly and close my eyes, pushing away the sting that comes with his curt command. It is strange to think that the day is ending like this. But I find myself feeling glad that it is as it is, instead of us sleeping in different rooms with hurt feelings and terrible tempers. I take one last look at him and fall deeply asleep.

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><p>This odd game continues for many, many nights. He seemed to think that it was only meant for one, because the night after when he saw me dragging the blankets back into the front room, he had demanded to know what I was doing. And when I told him, he was dumbfounded.<p>

After a few weeks, however, he is accustomed to it. He even helps me. When the time for bed comes, he pushes away the table and stokes the fire as I carry blankets and pillows. It is a small, cautious step toward our happiness, and I am willing to wait for him. Erik is guarded and wary, and he is still reluctant to accept this good thing.

We change into our sleepwear and enter the front room. Whenever I see him standing in front of the fire in his dressing gown, I realize that I have never fully appreciated what a striking figure he cuts. He is very tall and looks nearly regal in his black robe, with his black hair shining in the firelight. He turns and, to my immense surprise, manages to smile cautiously at me. It is small, and it is not exactly true, but the smile is there. I smile back. Although there is still some tension between us, it is no longer thick. A month ago it felt almost tangible, but now it is growing smaller with each passing night.

Quietly, we slide under the blankets. I strike up a conversation about the current opera, and I watch as he speaks quietly. We have never spoken in bed like this before. It is comfortable, and I find myself smiling as he talks to me. It stretches my lips. For a while, there is nothing but his soft tone and the occasional _pop _from the fireplace, and I lean into my pillow, feeling that I could sink into a blissful sleep.

"Am I boring you?"

I realize my eyes are shut and open them quickly.

"Of course not!" I say, yawning. "Your voice is just so lovely…like a lullaby...And I'm simply tired."

To my surprise, he chuckles warmly. "Then I _am _boring you. Go to sleep, _chérie._"

The term of affection nearly brings tears to my eyes. The last time he had called me something other than a cruel, sarcastic 'my wife' had been the morning of our wedding. I had been trying to control my tears, and he had attempted to soothe me by saying timidly, "I love you very much, _ma chere_." After that, the soft words stopped. They have returned, and they mean more to me than I had realized.

One evening, to my delight, he takes me outside. It is a cold evening. Snow blankets the available surfaces, and the hem of my dress becomes wet. I shiver at Erik's side, and my breath spirals up. The night is perfectly clear, and it is bright. I breathe in the cold air, feeling my lungs expand with the delicious night breeze. We do not stay out long because of the temperature, but I still enjoy myself, even with my ever-silent companion. When we enter the house by the lake, I go to my room to clean up a little for dinner. I look into the mirror, and I am rather pleased to note that my skin is flushed pink from the outing and that the dryness and thinness are disappearing. My hair looks better, and I do not have deep shadows under my eyes anymore. I allow myself a rather nervous smile. It looks more natural—still anxious, but not forced.

At dinner, I feel his flickering gaze on me occasionally, though neither of us speaks. I focus on my meal. I have found that my appetite has returned. I am gaining back the weight that was lost after I married Erik. The food tastes good to me now.

"You used to smile often."

I pause and look at him. He is now watching me openly, his cutlery abandoned on the table. He continues:

"When you were in the opera…You smiled. It was always exquisitely beautiful."

I resist the urge to fidget in my seat. Instead I put my utensils down and say, "I still smiled after I left."

"No. You stopped after our wedding." He pauses, almost thoughtfully. "Now, however…sometimes I see you smile. They are not the same, but that is…understandable. Perhaps one day they will be the same." He looks at me, as if wanting me to tell him that.

"Perhaps they will," I say, and I smile at him. His mouth twitches as if wishing to smile as well, but his glowing eyes more than make up for his lips' lack of movement.

The music is slowly coming back as well. I am less averse to singing or listening to him play. He will not play me pieces he has composed—not yet—but he plays Mozart so beautifully that I am willing to wait.

There are timid touches now. He never touched me out of the bedroom, but now he gives very tentative, brief touches—caresses, sometimes. They are never inappropriate. He always looks at me, watching to see if I will disapprove or pull away, but I never do. He is trying. He is trying to love me in a different way.

I am trying to love him, too. One afternoon, I ask him if he would like tea. He looks at me in surprise but declines—he does not like the tea that I make, and I know this. I then ask him if he will show me how to prepare the tea he enjoys. He obliges, and his voice is soft, gentle, as he teaches me. The next day, I bring him his Russian tea, and he carefully strokes the back of my hand with his fingers as he takes the cup. There is a cautious hesitancy we are afraid of breaking. I do not want to push him into anger or pressure him into discomfort. He is doing so well.

"Are you still very sad here?" he asks. I look at him. His teacup is set to the side, and he is watching me carefully. He continues: "Do you still hate me very much?"

"No," I say to both questions, completely truthful. He looks surprised at the answer and spends the rest of the evening in contemplative silence.

Several nights later, I wake during the middle of the night. I blink sleepily and yawn. After a moment, I realize that it is quite impossible to move, for I am curled up in Erik's embrace. He is deeply asleep, his breathing relaxed and steady. I am being held close to his heart, and I can hear it beat.

I stare into his chest. His sleeping shirt has been pulled somewhat, and I see an expanse of his chest, so thin and white. Did he pull me closer after I fell asleep? Surely not, for he has not reached for me once since we started this strange habit. Did I roll into his awaiting arms? Did we find each other in our dreams? When we used to sleep in the bed in my room, I would sometimes wake simply because of the coldness of his skin. However, it feels as though we have been in this position for many long hours now. And…to my further surprise…I find it extremely comfortable. The fire is a dull, hot glow around the room, and it casts a shadow over Erik's masked face. Shaking just a little, I reach up and lightly touch his lips, realizing that I have never really felt them. They are thin, too thin to be considered _soft_. His warm breath flutters around my fingers. My fingers pull down to his chin and then onto his neck. I find a line and follow it to his collarbone, which is deep and sharp. Then my wandering fingers take me down to his somewhat-exposed chest, and I feel the hard bone of his sternum beneath my fingers. It is odd…to think of Erik having many of the exact same qualities as any other man. I have always viewed him as something…not human. He is too smart and capable to be a normal man. Before I go any further, I feel him move slightly, and I instantly pull my hand away and shut my eyes.

A moment later, I hear a change in his breathing. I do not move.

"Christine…?" My name is whispered sleepily. I expect him to pull away when he realizes that his arms are around me. To my surprise, however, he does not. He simply lies there in silence, knowing that I am awake, waiting for me to dictate the outcome of this night. To answer his question, I give a tired yawn and pull the blankets up to my chin, though I do not move away from him. I can feel the shock radiating off of him, but I am still sleepy, and so I merely shift into a comfortable position in his arms and fall asleep once again.

After that night, I have no further misgivings about sleeping in his arms again. I know he does not reach for me greedily. He does not take advantage of this journey we are on. There is now something oddly comforting about it. I feel very…protected, and though we never speak about it, I know that he is enjoying this new discovery as well. Every few evenings we become a little closer, a little more comfortable. It is a delicious learning experience, for I am discovering more about Erik than I could have ever dreamed.

He admits to liking the smell of summer rain, to which I eagerly agree, as well as having a strange affinity for pocket watches.

"I shall show you my collection," he says, lightly touching a curl of mine. "I have dozens of beautiful watches. I really cannot tell you why they so appeal to me. It isn't as if time matters down here."

I also lower the high, cruel wall I have built. One evening, he is watching me quietly, and I am tracing the patterns of the blanket with my fingers. To my surprise, his hand reaches out, and he touches my cross necklace.

"I have never asked you about this piece," he says softly, and he holds the cross between his fingers. "I do not recall ever giving it to you."

"I forgot to take it off before I came out," I say absently, for I do not sleep with jewelry on, save my wedding ring. "It was…it was a present from my father, actually, right before he died."

His glowing eyes flicker up to mine before returning to the necklace, and he examines it more closely, though there really is nothing to see. It is simply a little cross necklace that means a great deal to me.

"Religion was very important to him, I assume," Erik says, and when he adjusts the necklace in his hands, the back of his fingers brush my skin. I try to fight a small blush.

"Yes, of course. He was a very good man, and though we were never wealthy, he always said that God had blessed us with more than we could ever need."

Erik is silent, and he allows the cross to fall back on my skin. However, his hands reach out again, and they go around my neck. Carefully, he feels for the clasps of the necklace, and he unhooks them, pulling it off of me and then holding it out.

"You wouldn't want to break it by sleeping with it on," he says, his voice still soft.

I take it with a thank you and carefully set it aside, where I will be sure to remember it in the morning. We both fall asleep, and I feel that our silence is a reflective one.

He is so very gentle, and I feel just a little happier every day. I _must _feel happier. I look forward to the time to retire. All pretenses are dropped. He is no longer a strict tutor, and I am no longer an obedient pupil. We are simply man and woman, husband and wife. It is nice with the fire blazing behind him and his eyes glowing gently at me. I do not feel troubled by him or his mask or his long hands. And when I think of those weeks ago, when I was cowering from him, when he was cold and aloof and distant, I know that I cannot return to that—not after I have seen and tasted the bond we share. It had been there when he was an Angel, but it had disappeared after I learned of his deception. Now it is coming back, slowly, patiently, and I am thankful for it.

One late night, I am feeling particularly awake, and I wriggle about, unable to fall asleep.

"Something troubles you?" comes the quiet inquiry.

I say, "I cannot sleep."

He opens his eyes and rolls on his side to look at me.

"Are you cold?" he asks. There is a tint of fear behind his words.

"No," I say quickly. "I am very warm. I just am not tired at all." I watch him for a moment. "Will you talk with me?" I ask hesitantly.

"Of course," he says.

I blush a little. "If you are tired, please sleep. I wouldn't want to—"

"Christine, I am fine. Please, say whatever you would like."

I smile at him, thanking him silently, and his eyes glow affectionately.

"What shall we discuss?" I say.

"Whatever you desire," he replies.

I push myself up and lean my head against my hand, watching him from my elbow.

"Will you tell me a story, _ange? _Maybe it will help me sleep."

I can tell how much it pleases him when I call him Angel. Perhaps I have grown too much to use that word, but it is something I feel I need.

Erik obliges to my childish request. "Of course. Which one would you like to hear?"

I think for a moment and cast my eyes over the books that line the walls. They can barely be seen in the dull light, but my eyes are caught by one with beautiful silver lettering on the spine. I recognize it.

"A fairytale," I say, looking back at him.

His eyes move in such a way that I can tell he has cocked an eyebrow. "A fairytale?"

I nod. "Tell me the one my father used to tell me—with the terrible witch and the beautiful princess."

He laughs a little. "I am afraid that there is a terrible witch and a beautiful princess in almost all fairytales, _ma chere_. You shall have to be more specific."

"It has a spinning wheel in it," I clarify.

"One of Perrault's dreadful tales?" he says distastefully. He then realizes what he has said and rectifies hastily, "Of course I shall tell it to you."

I lean back onto my pillow expectantly, watching as he begins.

It is the fairytale Papa loved best. His Swedish stories were always wonderful, and he told them beautifully. But I dearly loved the tale of the beautiful princess cursed to sleep for one hundred years. Erik tells it magically, and I smile at him as he speaks. He is a wonderful story-teller. I find it such a pity that I am one of the few people on earth who know this. It is terrible that all of his magnificent talent is hidden away under the earth.

But, wondrously, he seems content to tell me a simple fairytale. During the course of it, he has propped himself up on his elbow, exactly like I was. He watches me intently as he speaks. It is very intimidating, and I gaze at his eyes, entranced.

However, I reach up to try touch his face, and the moment is broken. There is fear in his eyes—anger and hurt—and he leans away and lies down quickly, leaving the story unfinished. I am ashamed and embarrassed.

I turn to look at him. He is watching the stone ceiling, his mouth set in a straight line. I shift closer and feel him flinch when I touch him lightly. We have never spoken of our nighttime embraces.

When I push myself to look at his eyes, he turns his face away.

"Are you going to finish the story?" I ask softly.

He is silent, staring in the opposite direction. I bite my lip for a moment, wondering if I should pursue this issue. Erik is a volatile man. No amount of love can completely change him. I know this. And though it somewhat frightens me to think that he will still fall victim to his insufferable tempers, I must learn to be strong. If I am to be here, with him, I must learn to weather the storms as they come. If I am damaged too frequently, too intensely, then I will die.

"You stopped at my favorite part," I say at length. "The prince went to the tower and found the princess sleeping. She was very beautiful—the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. He kissed her sleeping lips, she woke, and they married and were happy until their death."

Erik grunts.

"Do you not like that story?" I ask.

"I care nothing for it," he says instantly. "I have no opinion."

"I love it," I say. "It is magical to think that a simple kiss can wake her."

"It is foolish," he says, at last looking at me. "A kiss cannot solve anything."

"Perhaps you have never experienced it," I say. His eyes widen behind the mask. I continue, trying hard not to betray myself and my courage. "Perhaps you have never had a kiss that makes you believe that anything is possible."

"You're right," he says, his voice ugly. "I have not. But _you_ have had your fair share, haven't you?"

I refuse to let him be the victor of this. This is merely another step in our journey, and I must pull him along with me. Slowly, hesitantly, I move closer to him, leaning against him as I lower my head slightly. I expect him to move away from me, but he merely watches, as if seeing if I will do it.

His breath against my lips is trembling. I can feel his heart beat wildly against my chest. I allow us those few moments of trepidation, and then I press my lips against his.

We have never kissed before. Even during those terrible, intimate moments, he never kissed my mouth. Now I feel his thin lips touching mine. They are still, and I lean in a bit more, hoping he will respond. He is immobile under me, and I bring my hand up to find the visible portion of his chest, stroking it with trembling, unsure fingers. I gently tug on his upper lip, urging him to answer to my touch.

When he finally does, it is heartrending. He is so very cautious, so very unsure, as if expecting me to stop him at any moment. It is a tender, sweet, slow kiss. A shaking hand comes to run through my curls. He is afraid, and he is inexperienced. I have only kissed Raoul before this, and though I do not count myself as an 'experienced' woman, I draw on that knowledge to teach. When I tilt my head to deepen it, I feel my lips brush his mask.

This final barrier between us—the thing that has been the cause of all of this—is now building another wall. The piece of shaped leather that separates us has pushed us apart too many times. I do not want it blocking yet another aspect. I reach for the ties, willing myself to be strong, to control the shaking in my hand, and hoping he will neither notice nor care.

When my fingers touch the ties, he shifts under me instantly and grabs my wrist. We pause.

"No," he says against my lips.

"Please, _ange_," I whisper. "Trust me."

There is a tense moment of silence, and he does not release my hand.

"Not yet," he pleads. "Not yet_._" He sounds rather close to tears.

I pause and then acquiesce, though reluctantly. There is time, I tell myself…time for everything down here. There is time for his love, time for his face…time for _my _love, time for our marriage bed, time for our happiness.

A soft, shuddering cry comes from his lips, and I brush them with my own once again. He slips his hand around to the back of my neck and pulls me even closer.

"I love you," he gasps against me. "Oh, how I love you…"

He has not said that to me in months, and the words warm me more than anything. I smile and know that perhaps soon I will be able to say those words back. It will take more nights of this—this gentleness and tenderness. And when I do…I will be ready to try once again. I will welcome him back as my husband and encourage him when he is afraid. I will not shirk from his touch or turn my face from him when he loves me. We will be happy and content.

I let him kiss me for a while longer, until he is sobbing against me. He pulls me to him, clutching at me tightly and pressing his masked face into my neck. I put an unsteady hand on his hair and stroke it carefully, feeling his frame shudder with his wracking sobs.

"_Ange_, please do not cry," I bid softly.

He begs for forgiveness—he pleads with me not to abhor him. He continues to cry how much he loves me, how much he adores me, and though Erik has done so many unforgiveable things…I feel resentment and bitterness slipping away.

His weeping slows, yet he holds me still, clasping tightly, and he shudders and trembles with the effects of his tears. Slowly, his breathing evens and then deepens, and he falls asleep, no doubt exhausted. I look at him—at this damaged man who has been shunned at every turn—and I do not have the familiar feelings of fear and anger. Instead, I feel the weight of care—now that I am his wife—and a semblance of peace and hope.

Carefully, I kiss his sleeping lips and then the space above his heart. And with the warmth of my new discovery filling me, I settle into his arms and sleep.

_Fin_


End file.
